“Yes, sir, there is a woman who sews here, called Grace Poole—she laughs in that way. She is a singular person.”
“Just so. Grace Poole—you have guessed it. She is, as you say, singular—very. Well, I shall reflect on the subject. Meantime, I am glad that you are the only person, besides myself, acquainted with the precise details of tonight’s incident. You are no talking fool, say nothing about it. I will account for this state of affairs”—pointing to the bed—“and now return to your own room. I shall do very well on the sofa in the library for the rest of the night. It is near four—in two hours the servants will be up.”
“Good-night, then, sir,” said I, departing.
He seemed surprised—very inconsistently so, as he had just told me to go.
“What!” he exclaimed, “Are you quitting me already, and in that way?”
“You said I might go, sir.”
“But not without taking leave, not without a word or two of acknowledgment and good-will, not, in short, in that brief, dry fashion. Why, you have saved my life! Snatched me from a horrible and excruciating death! And you walk past me as if we were mutual strangers! At least shake hands.”
He held out his hand. I gave him mine, he took it first in one, them in both his own. I knew I should withdraw mine immediately, but I did not do so. His grip was firm and strong; no man had ever held me so. I recollected, suddenly, some of the pictures I had viewed earlier. I tensed.
“You have saved my life. I have a pleasure in owing you so immense a debt. I cannot say more. Nothing else that has being would have been tolerable to me in the character of creditor for such an obligation, but you, it is different—I feel your benefits no burden, Jane.”
He paused, gazed at me, words almost visible trembled on his lips—but his voice was checked.
“Good-night again, sir. There is no debt, benefit, burden, obligation, in the case.”
“I knew,” he continued, “you would do me good in some way, at some time—I saw it in your eyes when I first beheld you, their expression and smile did not”—again he stopped— “did not”—he proceeded hastily—“strike delight to my very inmost heart so for nothing. People talk of natural sympathies; I have heard of good genii. There are grains of truth in the wildest fable. My cherished preserver, goodnight!”
Strange energy was in his voice, strange fire in his look, strange power in his tight grip.
“I am glad I happened to be awake,” I said, and then I was going.
“What! You will go?”
“I am cold, sir.” That was not exactly a truth. But I dared not tell him the truth. I could scarcely breathe. I was so hot as to feel fevered. I wanted my master to take me as the man in the book had taken the woman.
“Cold? Yes—and standing in a pool! Go, then, Jane, go!” But he still retained my hand, and I could not free it. I bethought myself of an expedient.
“I think I hear Mrs Fairfax move, sir,” said I.
“Well, leave me,” he relaxed his fingers.
With great reluctance, I took back my hand. His countenance was pensive, as if he wanted to say something further. And I wanted to ask about the book. Before he could speak, before I caved to temptation and released my own tongue I was gone.
I regained my couch, but never thought of sleep. Till morning dawned I was tossed on a buoyant but unquiet sea, where billows of trouble rolled under surges of joy. I thought sometimes I saw beyond its wild waters a shore, sweet as the hills of Beulah and now and then a freshening gale, wakened by hope, bore my spirit triumphantly towards the bourne, but I could not reach it, even in fancy—a counteracting breeze blew off land, and continually drove me back. Sense would resist delirium, judgement would warn passion. Alas! What had happened last eve? Gratitude from my master, to be sure, but something more inside me, between us. I was disquieted. Too feverish to rest, I rose as soon as day dawned.
Chapter Sixteen
I both wished and feared to see Mr Rochester on the day which followed this sleepless night, I wanted to hear his voice again, yet feared to meet his eye. Surely I had revealed myself to him. I was a servant, he was my master. I dared not think of anything more. During the early part of the morning, I momentarily expected his coming; he was not in the frequent habit of entering the schoolroom, but he did step in for a few minutes sometimes, and I had the impression that he was sure to visit it that day.
But the morning passed just as usual, nothing happened to interrupt the quiet course of Adèle’s studies; only soon after breakfast, I heard some bustle in the neighbourhood of Mr Rochester’s chamber, Mrs Fairfax’s voice, and Leah’s, and the cook’s—that is, John’s wife—and even John’s own gruff tones. There were exclamations of “What a mercy master was not burnt in his bed!” “It is always dangerous to keep a candle lit at night.” “How providential that he had presence of mind to think of the water-jug!” “I wonder he waked nobody!” “It is to be hoped he will not take cold with sleeping on the library sofa,” etcetera.
To much confabulation succeeded a sound of scrubbing and setting to rights and when I passed the room, in going downstairs to dinner, I saw through the open door that all was again restored to complete order; only the bed was stripped of its hangings. Leah stood up in the window-seat, rubbing the panes of glass dimmed with smoke. I was about to address her, for I wished to know what account had been given of the affair, but, on advancing, I saw a second person in the chamber—a woman sitting on a chair by the bedside, and sewing rings to new curtains. That woman was no other than Grace Poole.
There she sat, staid and taciturn-looking, as usual, in her brown stuff gown, her check apron, white handkerchief, and cap. She was intent on her work, in which her whole thoughts seemed absorbed. On her hard forehead, and in her commonplace features, was nothing either of the paleness or desperation one would have expected to see marking the countenance of a woman who had attempted murder, and whose intended victim had followed her last night to her lair, and—as I believed—charged her with the crime she wished to perpetrate. I was amazed—confounded. She looked up, while I still gazed at her, no start, no increase or failure of colour betrayed emotion, consciousness of guilt, or fear of detection. She said “Good morning, Miss,” in her usual phlegmatic and brief manner and taking up another ring and more tape, went on with her sewing.
“I will put her to some test,” thought I, “such absolute impenetrability is past comprehension.”
“Good morning, Grace,” I said. “Has anything happened here? I thought I heard the servants all talking together a while ago.”
“Only master had been reading in his bed last night. He fell asleep with his candle lit, and the curtains got on fire; but, fortunately, he awoke before the bed clothes or the wood-work caught, and contrived to quench the flames with the water in the ewer.”
“A strange affair!” I said, in a low voice, then, looking at her fixedly—“Did Mr Rochester wake nobody? Did no one hear him move?”
She again raised her eyes to me, and this time there was something of consciousness in their expression. She seemed to examine me warily; then she answered, “The servants sleep so far off, you know, Miss, they would not be likely to hear. Mrs Fairfax’s room and yours are the nearest to master’s, but Mrs Fairfax said she heard nothing. When people get elderly, they often sleep heavy.” She paused, and then added, with a sort of assumed indifference, but still in a marked and significant tone—“But you are young, Miss and I should say a light sleeper, perhaps you may have heard a noise?”
“I did,” said I, dropping my voice, so that Leah, who was still polishing the panes, could not hear me, “and at first I thought it was Pilot, but Pilot cannot laugh and I am certain I heard a laugh, and a strange one.”
She took a new needleful of thread, waxed it carefully, threaded her needle with a steady hand, and then observed, with perfect composure.
“It is hardly likely master would laugh, I should think, Miss, when he was in such danger. You must have been dreaming.”
“I was not dreaming,” I said, with some warmth, for her brazen coolness provoked me. Again she looked at me and with the same scrutinising and conscious eye.
“Have you told master that you heard a laugh?” she enquired.
“I have not had the opportunity of speaking to him this morning.”
“You did not think of opening your door and looking out into the gallery?” she further asked.
She appeared to be cross-questioning me, attempting to draw from me information unawares. The idea struck me that if she discovered I knew or suspected her guilt, she would be playing of some of her malignant pranks on me; I thought it advisable to be on my guard.
“On the contrary,” said I, “I bolted my door.”
“Then you are not in the habit of bolting your door every night before you get into bed?”
Fiend! She wants to know my habits, that she may lay her plans accordingly! Indignation again prevailed over prudence, I replied sharply, “Hitherto I have often omitted to fasten the bolt. I did not think it necessary. I was not aware any danger or annoyance was to be dreaded at Thornfield Hall, but in future”—and I laid marked stress on the words—“I shall take good care to make all secure before I venture to lie down.”
“It will be wise so to do,” was her answer. “This neighbourhood is as quiet as any I know, and I never heard of the hall being attempted by robbers since it was a house; though there are hundreds of pounds’ worth of plate in the plate-closet, as is well known. And you see, for such a large house, there are very few servants, because master has never lived here much and when he does come, being a bachelor, he needs little waiting on, but I always think it best to err on the safe side; a door is soon fastened, and it is as well to have a drawn bolt between one and any mischief that may be about. A deal of people, Miss, are for trusting all to Providence; but I say Providence will not dispense with the means, though He often blesses them when they are used discreetly.” And here she closed her harangue, a long one for her, and uttered with the demureness of a Quakeress.
I still stood absolutely dumfoundered at what appeared to me her miraculous self-possession and most inscrutable hypocrisy, when the cook entered.
“Mrs Poole,” said she, addressing Grace, “the servants’ dinner will soon be ready, will you come down?”
“No, just put my pint of porter and bit of pudding on a tray, and I’ll carry it upstairs.”
“You’ll have some meat?”
“Just a morsel, and a taste of cheese, that’s all.”
“And the sago?”
“Never mind it at present, I shall be coming down before teatime. I’ll make it myself.”
The cook here turned to me, saying that Mrs Fairfax was waiting for me, so I departed.
I hardly heard Mrs Fairfax’s account of the curtain conflagration during dinner, so much was I occupied in puzzling my brains over the enigmatical character of Grace Poole, and still more in pondering the problem of her position at Thornfield and questioning why she had not been given into custody that morning, or, at the very least, dismissed from her master’s service. He had almost as much as declared his conviction of her criminality last night, what mysterious cause withheld him from accusing her? Why had he enjoined me, too, to secrecy? It was strange, a bold, vindictive, and haughty gentleman seemed somehow in the power of one of the meanest of his dependants; so much in her power, that even when she lifted her hand against his life, he dared not openly charge her with the attempt, much less punish her for it.
Had Grace been young and handsome, I should have been tempted to think that tenderer feelings than prudence or fear influenced Mr Rochester in her behalf; but, hard-favoured and matronly as she was, the idea could not be admitted. “Yet,” I reflected, “she has been young once; her youth would be contemporary with her master’s, Mrs Fairfax told me once, she had lived here many years. I don’t think she can ever have been pretty; but, for aught I know, she may possess originality and strength of character to compensate for the want of personal advantages. Mr Rochester is an amateur of the decided and eccentric, Grace is eccentric at least. What if a former caprice—a freak very possible to a nature so sudden and headstrong as his—has delivered him into her power, and she now exercises over his actions a secret influence, the result of his own indiscretion, which he cannot shake off, and dare not disregard?” But, having reached this point of conjecture, Mrs Poole’s square, flat figure, and uncomely, dry, even coarse face, recurred so distinctly to my mind’s eye, that I thought, “No; impossible! My supposition cannot be correct. Yet,” suggested the secret voice which talks to us in our own hearts, “you are not beautiful either, and perhaps Mr Rochester approves you, at any rate, you have often felt as if he did and last night—remember his words; remember his look; remember his voice!”
I well remembered all; language, glance, and tone seemed at the moment vividly renewed. I was now in the schoolroom. Adèle was drawing. I bent over her and directed her pencil. She looked up with a sort of start.
“Qu’ avez-vous, mademoiselle?” said she. “Vos doigts tremblent comme la feuille, et vos joues sont rouges, mais, rouges comme des cerises!”
“I am hot, Adèle, with stooping!” She went on sketching, I went on thinking.
I hastened to drive from my mind the hateful notion I had been conceiving respecting Grace Poole; it disgusted me. I compared myself with her, and found we were different. Bessie Leaven had said I was quite a lady and she spoke truth—I was a lady. And now I looked much better than I did when Bessie saw me. I had more colour and more flesh, more life, more vivacity, because I had brighter hopes and keener enjoyments.
“Evening approaches,” said I, as I looked towards the window. “I have never heard Mr Rochester’s voice or step in the house today, but surely I shall see him before night, I feared the meeting in the morning; now I desire it, because expectation has been so long baffled that it is grown impatient.”
When dusk actually closed, and when Adèle left me to go and play in the nursery with Sophie, I did most keenly desire it. I listened for the bell to ring below. I listened for Leah coming up with a message; I fancied sometimes I heard Mr Rochester’s own tread, and I turned to the door, expecting it to open and admit him. The door remained shut; darkness only came in through the window. Still it was not late; he often sent for me at seven and eight o’clock, and it was yet but six. Surely I should not be wholly disappointed tonight, when I had so many things to say to him! I wanted again to introduce the subject of Grace Poole, and to hear what he would answer; I wanted to ask him plainly if he really believed it was she who had made last night’s hideous attempt and if so, why he kept her wickedness a secret. It little mattered whether my curiosity irritated him. I knew the pleasure of vexing and soothing him by turns; it was one I chiefly delighted in, and a sure instinct always prevented me from going too far; beyond the verge of provocation I never ventured, on the extreme brink I liked well to try my skill. Retaining every minute form of respect, every propriety of my station, I could still meet him in argument without fear or uneasy restraint; this suited both him and me.
I considered ways to mention the book I had heisted. What form of conversation would ensue from that? And would he ever—for my boldness that I would protest had indeed been an accident—take me in his arms to punish my transgression?
A tread creaked on the stairs at last. Leah made her appearance; but it was only to intimate that tea was ready in Mrs Fairfax’s room. Thither I repaired, glad at least to go downstairs; for that brought me, I imagined, nearer to Mr Rochester’s presence.
“You must want your tea,” said the good lady, as I joined her; “you ate so little at dinner. I am afraid,” she continued, “you are not well today, you look flushed and feverish.”
“Oh, quite well! I never felt better.”
“Then you must prove it by evincing a good appetite, will you fill the teapot while I knit off this needle?” Having completed her task, she rose to draw down the blind, wh
ich she had hitherto kept up, by way, I suppose, of making the most of daylight, though dusk was now fast deepening into total obscurity.
“It is fair tonight,” said she, as she looked through the panes, “though not starlight. Mr Rochester has, on the whole, had a favourable day for his journey.”
“Journey!—Is Mr Rochester gone anywhere? I did not know he was out.”
“Oh, he set off the moment he had breakfasted! He is gone to the Leas, Mr Eshton’s place, ten miles on the other side Millcote. I believe there is quite a party assembled there; Lord Ingram, Sir George Lynn, Colonel Dent, and others.”
“Do you expect him back tonight?”
“No—nor tomorrow either; I should think he is very likely to stay a week or more, when these fine, fashionable people get together, they are so surrounded by elegance and gaiety, so well provided with all that can please and entertain, they are in no hurry to separate. Gentlemen especially are often in request on such occasions and Mr Rochester is so talented and so lively in society, that I believe he is a general favourite. The ladies are very fond of him; though you would not think his appearance calculated to recommend him particularly in their eyes, but I suppose his acquirements and abilities, perhaps his wealth and good blood, make amends for any little fault of look.”
I valiantly pushed away my devastation. “Are there ladies at the Leas?”
“There are Mrs Eshton and her three daughters—very elegant young ladies indeed and there are the Honourable Blanche and Mary Ingram, most beautiful women, I suppose, indeed I have seen Blanche, six or seven years since, when she was a girl of eighteen. She came here to a Christmas ball and party Mr Rochester gave. You should have seen the dining room that day—how richly it was decorated, how brilliantly lit up! I should think there were fifty ladies and gentlemen present—all of the first county families and Miss Ingram was considered the belle of the evening.”
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